


when you're in the room, you get my eyes

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, fratt week prompt: dark, not super explicit but not like they go to bed and the curtain falls either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Red’s flesh is so pale, he thinks, in some small part of his mind that is quiet. It’s dark, in this hour nearer to daybreak than to midnight, and the only light comes in from the stupid fucking billboard that Frank hates most nights. But tonight, he doesn’t mind it, the soft blues and purples of the light. He wonders if the shadows on Matt’s skin are from bruises or shadows from the uneven lighting.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77
Collections: Fratt Week





	when you're in the room, you get my eyes

The adrenaline runs hot through his veins. Red groans under him, arches up to press the flesh of his neck harder against Frank’s mouth.

_Take more of me,_ he seems to beg. Frank will oblige, for him. He won’t oblige him in everything, but in this, he yields every single time.

Red’s flesh is so pale, he thinks, in some small part of his mind that is quiet. It’s dark, in this hour nearer to daybreak than to midnight, and the only light comes in from the stupid fucking billboard that Frank hates most nights. But tonight, he doesn’t mind it, the soft blues and purples of the light. He wonders if the shadows on Matt’s skin are from bruises or shadows from the uneven lighting.

Matt’s hands are in his hair—he hasn’t cut it lately, and it’s growing out again. Matt confessed once, on a night much like this, that he likes it like this. His fingers bury themselves deep and hold tight. Matt pushes on him, just a little bit, and he takes the hint, sinks down lower, from neck to the hollow above the clavicle, to the hollow underneath.

Red’s so loud in bed. It’s gratifying, to hear him. Almost as gratifying as Frank imagines it would be to see him, to really _see_ him when they’re like this. The half-light is beautiful, and it suits him, but Frank wishes, just once, that they could have the light on. He doesn’t know how to ask, though. How does one ask a blind man if they can turn on the light? He doesn’t want for it to change things between them. He doesn’t want to lose anything else.

But deep in his gut, Frank knows that Matt under lamplight, under Frank’s mouth and hands and body, would look different from the Matt that buttons up his shirt from top to bottom and leaves coffee to brew in the morning. He’d look different from the tiny piece of Matt that he sees at night, when they’re going out and he’s got the stupid costume on. He’d look different than the Matt he’d seen in the courtroom, playing to the jury, muddying the waters of right and wrong until he’d nearly gotten Frank off.

It hadn’t quite worked, but that was down to Fisk, and to Frank himself, and Matt’s gotten him off plenty of times since.

Frank lays his lips against the firm muscle of Matt’s pectoral—always his right, never his left.

He doesn’t let himself hear the beat of Matt’s heart these nights. It reminds him of the handful of times Matt had been beaten so badly that Frank had thought maybe—and he’d listened for that heartbeat, trying to distinguish it from the rushing in his ears. Matt’s heart wasn’t made for a man like Frank.

He still says her name in his sleep, sometimes. Frank shouldn’t hold it against him, not when he has Maria and the kids haunting him, but it does serve as a reminder.

Lower down, to the ridges of his ribs. Careful here, because Matt doesn’t admit it, but they’re pretty much always sore. Matt shifts a little, under the weight of Frank’s hands. He recoils a little when Frank runs his lips over a bruise, but tries to make up for it by leaning into it right after.

When he reaches out for his work bag, or for a mug on a high shelf, or across the coffee table for his book, or across Frank’s chest for his phone, and he gasps, just a short inhale and a harsh exhale. Frank wonders whether he ever really lets himself feel the pain, or whether he just manages it, like second nature. He wonders how much pain one man can manage before he drowns in it.

To his abs, the way they flex under his hands. This part always takes Frank by surprise, the intimacy of it, the trust in it. There are no bones in the abdomen, just the spine. Nothing to protect those soft, vulnerable organs.

Frank remembers the feeling of slipping a knife into a man’s gut, the way it had slipped through with ease. He’d barely had to put any force into it, and then the stench of blood and shit filled the air.

Matt’s hands in his hair tighten, and Frank flicks out his tongue, feels the way the planes of his stomach wriggle at the feeling, the breathless reprimand, Frank’s name gasped out.

The sound is… it’s like playing the guitar, struggling with a piece for months and then playing it perfectly for the very first time.

Those hands, pushing him down further—

Frank hooks a finger into Matt’s briefs and pulls them down, tosses them to the side. His skin smells of sweat, the scent of the suit—a strange mix of spandex and metal—lingering as Frank presses his nose into the crease where Matt’s hip meets his thigh.

Matt lets out a whimper, a sound of pure sin.

“ _Please_ —”

Frank, as ever, obliges him, abandons his rediscovery of Matt’s body in favor of positioning his head right where Matt wants it.

There’s a moment when everything is frozen. A moment where Frank stays perfectly still, hovering and inhaling the musk of Matt’s scent. A moment where Matt doesn’t pull, knows that he’s going to get exactly what he wants very, very soon.

The moment ends, and Frank wraps his lips around Matt’s cock and sinks down slowly.

He keeps his eyes open. This is one of the only times he can look at Matt without him sensing it. He has no idea how Matt knows, first thing in the morning, when Frank’s watching him sleep, or when they’re out at night and they run into each other. But in these moments, he’s too distracted, and Frank gets to look to his heart’s near-content.

— _if only the lights were on_ —

He squints, trying to decipher Matt’s expression under the shadows. He sees the lines bracketing his mouth, wide open in appreciation of Frank’s actions. Matt’s lips are shining wetly, from the way Frank had picked him up as soon as they got back to his apartment, shoved him against a wall, and kissed him viciously.

Frank closes his eyes, feels the velvet skin in his mouth. He inhales in preparation before he sinks down further. Tears prick at his eyes, and he isn’t sure if it’s from oxygen deprivation or Matt’s fingers yanking on his hair.

_I’m gonna be bald if you keep that up,_ he thinks, and there may even be some fondness in the thought, but he can’t _say_ it, seeing as his mouth is otherwise occupied.

Up and down, up and down. Frank almost loses himself in the rhythm. He lets his eyes close, then remembers and opens them to take in the sight of Matt. His hands aren’t in Frank’s hair anymore, but fisted into the sheets, fighting to keep his hips still.

Frank lays one hand on Matt’s hip and pushes hard, the other planted drifting down, because Matt’s not the only one with needs.

“No,” Matt begs, and Frank pauses. “No,” Matt stammers, “I want to—let me—just _let_ me, okay?”

Daredevil never stutters. Matt Murdock, attorney at law, never stutters. This is something Frank likes to believe only he gets to see, in bed like this.

They’ve never talked about it, though. How could they? They’re just two guys who fight together now and then, who work off the excess adrenaline with a round of incredible sex afterwards.

Maybe Matt sees other people, he thinks. Frank doesn’t, that’s for sure. He has no interest in seeking out company, even less in pursuing a relationship with someone who has no idea what he’s been through.

He’s slowed down. When did the adrenaline abandon him? Matt half sits up, propping himself up on his elbows, and in the dim light, Frank absently watches his abs flex.

“Frank?” There’s genuine concern there, the desperation abating. Matt reaches out a hand, and Frank closes his eyes as that hand finds his cheek.

Frank takes a moment to be glad that Matt can’t see him. He takes it, accepts the tenderness that slips in between them every now and then.

He turns his head and kisses that hand. Matt sits up properly, reaches for Frank’s shoulders and hauls him back up, not a word about how he hasn’t come yet.

Red kisses him like a lover, rolls them over so that he’s on top of Frank. His chest tightens for an instant. But then Matt’s leaning down again and Frank can’t help but relax into the touch. He reaches out, hands over Matt’s shoulders, feeling the ridges of his shoulder blades.

His body is cast in shadow like this, backlit by the billboard, a silhouette. Frank watches the silhouette, traces the disheveled helmet hair, the smooth neck, the body that’s all lean, lithe muscle now, no bruises, no pain.

Matt fumbles with something and Frank snaps out of his thoughts. He finds the tube of lubricant and squeezes some out onto his fingers. He presses them carefully into Matt, one and then another, when Matt’s sighing happily. Frank likes to do this part himself, because when Matt always rushes it. He has such a high pain tolerance, sometimes he doesn’t bother avoiding pain when he has the opportunity to. It makes something in Frank balk, at the way Red’s so willing to die for his principles, so willing to suffer for no good reason.

“Please,” Matt whispers against Frank’s neck. The rush of his breath makes Frank’s neck prickle, a pleasant shiver rushing down his spine.

Who is Frank to deny him, after all?

Matt sinks down onto him and lets out a ragged sigh.

Slowly, his silhouette moves up and down, Frank’s hands on his hips.

Red comes first, squeezing him in a vice grip and wrenching Frank’s orgasm out of him. It’s not the best Frank’s had with Matt, if he’s being honest. He’s been too distracted, too lost in his own thoughts.

But he can’t complain, not when Matt collapses next to him, the scent of fresh sweat layered over the smell of the suit. Matt doesn’t even bother complaining about how they must stink—Frank tries to imagine what it’s like to have that level of olfactory sensitivity and can’t. 

Matt settles in with his head on Frank’s chest, over his heart, and falls asleep quickly.

Frank doesn’t. But fatigue pulls at his mind, and he wakes in the morning and realizes that he must have slept after all. Matt’s half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower. In the daylight, he looks… not like someone who’d ridden Frank hard last night. He doesn’t have that halo, like he did when his head was silhouetted against the light of the billboard. Frank wonders what his face had looked like, when Frank had been pressed deep inside him, when he’d nearly been uttering a constant strain of obscenities and blasphemies, interspersed with Frank’s name.

Maybe next time, he’ll ask to keep the light on.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything even close to explicit in ages and I realize that the experience is just as mortifying and horrendously awkward as I remember it being! Please forgive me if that comes across in the writing. 
> 
> Also why am I so into Frank's perspective lately? Is it because Frank can see and I don't have to remember to reframe all the sensory input in ways that Matt could pick up on? Perhaps. 
> 
> title from The Neighbourhood's Single.


End file.
